


Cool Ignis Has Chill Birthday

by dicaeopolis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Arson, Dancing, M/M, Multi, Pre-Canon, despite that tag it's like. INCREDIBLY fluffy, probably the softest thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 17:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17708360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicaeopolis/pseuds/dicaeopolis
Summary: Ignis' birthdays haven't been great, historically.His boyfriends are set on changing that. With arson.





	Cool Ignis Has Chill Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> the alt title for this is “everyone on twitter voted for Ignis Commits Arson for his birthday fic so here you fuckers go”. speaking of twitter [hit me up](http://www.twitter.com/dickaeopolis) love u all xoxo

Ignis always wakes up perfectly still.

Instinct, maybe. Or habit. Before he’s even moving, he brushes off the cobwebs of his dreams and starts laying out his tasks for the day in neat rows, lists of ingredients and walking times between conference rooms and walking Prompto to his evening classes on Tuesdays and Fridays and-

The brush of stubble and the whuff of a deep voice jolt him into a full-body shiver. He doesn’t realize how fuzzy-brained he still is until he’s being gently rolled onto his side, feeling like half his corporeal form is still lying flat. The upright part struggles, clings to its half-formed organization.

“Happy birthday,” Gladio rumbles against Ignis’ spine and the bare back of his neck.

The bits of schedule melt away. Ignis lets out a tiny, involuntary sigh. Gladio kisses the nape of his neck and nibbles along the crook of his collarbone, and Ignis lets himself linger.

Through a few closed doors, there is a crash.

Gladio closes the iron bear-trap of his arm over Ignis’ waist. “No,” he says. “Let ‘em figure it out.”

“I’d hardly consider destruction of my kitchen a fit birthday present,” Ignis retorts. Except they’re the first words he’s said and so they come out more like a croak, and by the time Gladio is done laughing at him there’s two sets of steps coming down the short hallway to Ignis’ room.

“Shall I brace myself?” he murmurs.

“Eh, they remembered to take the batteries out of the smoke alarm, give ‘em some credit.”

Dawn is pale and golden and grey through the window. Ignis turns in Gladio’s arms and kisses him, deep and lazy, as the door opens.

Prompto and Noctis enter like a small herd of burnt-toast-scented elephants. Prompto is noisily exuberant, Noct smirking and quietly egging him on like he always does. Gladio props up a few pillows, so Ignis can sit up and balance his plate and glass of orange juice, and Prompto presses up against his free side. When Noct tucks himself against Ignis’ legs, Ignis feels a lump in his back pocket, not dissimilar in shape to a couple of double-A batteries.

Finally, he wakes up enough to accept that it is his twenty-second birthday.

* * *

Ignis always wakes up perfectly still, but especially on his birthdays. Regis won’t even let him into the Citadel on February sevenths. He does it with a chuckle and a wink, like it’s a gift, but - well, Ignis isn’t close to what family he has, and the idleness tends to overwhelm him.

Noct changed things. As a kid, Noct tended to give gifts that Noct would want himself, so Ignis’ birthdays stopped being empty and started consisting of indoor water parks, intensely cheesy old comedies, Octavia and the Coeurls concerts. Prompto and Gladio made them four, eventually, but this is Ignis’ first birthday since they’ve become - well,  _ four. _ He's not quite sure what to expect.

He needn’t have worried. When Noct is in meetings, Prompto and Gladio take him out for mid-morning coffee, at a small shop where they can watch the beans grind through the machine and surround them with the scent of coffee. When Gladio has to go wrestle some new recruits to the Crownsguard into submission, Noct and Prompto bring him to feed the ducks at the park near Noct’s place, and when he’s intent on coaxing a stubborn mallard towards himself, they spread out a picnic blanket behind his back and then tackle it onto him in sync with more force than he could resist if he wanted to. When Prompto has class, Gladio and Noct allow him to sit on the kitchen counter and give them tips as they shred carrots and measure raisins for his cake.

Prompto arrives at Ignis’ apartment with kicked-off Converse and a dropped backpack and a slammed door and a pleased squeak as Noct meets him with a kiss and a shouted “I’m home!” that, really, lodges itself deeper in Ignis’ chest than it should.

He patters into the kitchen. Ignis catches him by the waist.  _ “Mmpfh-” _

“Rude,” says Noct, watching Ignis kiss him senseless.  _ “I _ didn’t get kissed like that when I got here.”

“You got here before I did,” Ignis points out, reluctantly releasing a spluttering Prompto. “Besides, he’s rather irresistible.”

Gladio rolls up a dish towel and swats somewhere below Ignis’ back. “Quit bein’ smooth, he’s gotta help with the frosting before we do presents.”

“Presents?” Ignis returns to his perch on the counter, crossing his dangling ankles. Noct is digging through the fridge. “I was under the impression that that was what this morning was.”

“Nah, that was just breakfast.” Prompto bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning foolishly. Ignis has seen this on other birthdays - Prompto loves giving gifts, gets as excited about them as the recipient. “They go together. They all do, actually.”

Noct stands up from the fridge, holding several blocks of cream cheese, and says, imperious, “Mine first, I’m the prince.”

Gladio catches him by the back of his collar and cuffs him around the ears like a rowdy kitten. Ignis loves them so much it hurts. “Mine  _ has _ to come first, shithead.”

“You can’t call the crown prince  _ shithead.” _

“You are a shithead.” Gladio digs his knuckles into Noct’s head for a moment, and then releases him to dump out the cream cheese into a mixing bowl. “Make the damn frosting.”

“Is willingly eating a vegetable your gift to me?” Ignis asks Noct.

“Carrot cake isn’t  _ carrots, _ Specs.”

“Gladio,” Prompto whines,  _ “please _ go get your present for Iggy, I’m dying over here.”

“Thought you liked it when I kept you on edge.” Gladio smirks down at him as he starts spluttering again. “But sure.”

So Prompto and Noct manage to frost the cake, along with most of their clothing. Gladio comes back with a flat box, wrapped in brown paper. Someone shifts, someone hands Ignis a plate with the messiest, most delicious carrot cake he’s ever eaten, and then he’s sitting on his loveseat, three boyfriends encircling him, as he pulls the strings from the box.

The contents are silky, running cool and smooth between his fingers. The purple is so deep it’s nearly black - and as Ignis tilts it in the light through the window, there’s the shimmer of coeurl print, so subtle one could nearly miss it.

_ “Oh,” _ he breathes.

Prompto nudges Gladio and loudly whispers,  _ “score.” _

“Gladiolus.” Ignis turns and kisses him, firmly. “Thank you.”

Prompto tolerates the pause for a moment and then kicks Noct in the shin.

_ “Ow! Okay, _ jeez - so, that’s to help with this.” He pulls a folded paper from his jacket pocket, hands it to Ignis.

_ “Nightlights,” _ Ignis reads off. The name is familiar - the reputation more so. “Guest list, February seventh. Octavia Scaevola, Noctis Lucis Caelum-” He stops at the next three names. “Pardon?”

“It’s - it’s my gift,” Noct blurts out. “The place is pretty exclusive - really exclusive - but, well-” He motions to himself, a single understated gesture. Funny, that he’s always so ready to flaunt his status when he’s joking, always so quick to downplay it when he’s sincere.

“I was hardly under the impression that you were hip to the Insomnian nightlife scene,” Ignis says, to put him back on solid ground.

“You don’t know what I get up to in my free time,” Noct retorts.

“I do,” Ignis says patiently. “I’m there for almost all of it.”

They stare at each other for a moment, til Noct breaks and admits, “I asked Glaive Altius.”

“That’s more like it.”

_ “So?” _ Prompto is shifting in his seat. “Are you - y’know, down?”

Gladio snorts. Noctis grins.

“My dear,” Ignis says. He puts a thumb under Prompto’s chin, tilts his face up, smiles down at him. “As you might say, I was born ready.”

Prompto spends the next minute attempting to lick all the residual cream cheese frosting from the inside of Ignis’ mouth, til Gladio peels him off and reminds him that they need to get  _ moving. _

So Prompto puts on his HYPE SONGS FOR PREGAMING AND MORNING RUNS XOXO playlist and a bottle of wine passes from hand to hand as they dress. Noct switches his black clothes for slightly tighter black clothes. Prompto has brought a tangle of mesh and fishnets and Doc Martens like the middle-school goth he’s never really stopped being. Gladio takes off his shirt and announces that he’s ready.

(As for Ignis, well, Ignis wears his new shirt, and black skinny jeans so tight he has to  _ shimmy _ into them, and heels that put him nearly as tall as Gladio, and glittery black eyeliner with wings so sharp he could  _ soar.) _

He hesitates only once, as they’re climbing out of the parking garage next door. The music is thumping muffled through the concrete. “Leaving the Jeep here for the night, then?”

“We can take it home, I’m stayin’ sober tonight,” Gladio assures him. “Just for you.”

“You sure are!” Prompto crows. “Noct, hold him-”

“Wait, hold up,” Gladio protests, swatting at Noct as he attempts to wrangle him. Prompto has pulled a sharpie from the console, and is standing on his tiptoes to scrawl a messy D on each cheek.  _ “Hold up-” _

And then Ignis gives him an indulgent smile, and watches the complaint die in his throat.

Perhaps birthdays are alright.

* * *

It really is one of the fanciest places Ignis has been in his life. Pity, really, that he’s so focused on something he sees every day.

He can’t bring himself to feel an ounce of regret.

Noct’s back is pressed flush against Ignis’ chest, head tipped back onto his shoulder. It’s impossible for anyone to convince Noct to dance on the average day, but he  _ can, _ if he chooses. He’s got a careless sinuosity to his movements, an understated grace that’s hard to notice, impossible to stop noticing.

Like now.

Ignis inhales, catches him by the belt loops, spins him around to face him. Noct’s jacket is still in the Jeep, leaving him in a loose, soft black tank top. Ignis slides a hand underneath the hem to rest against the small of Noct’s back, and pulls him closer. It’s hard to see much in the dim lighting, and so Ignis leans down to investigate Noct’s bare shoulder, the line of his collarbone, the curve of his neck, just swift enough to betray his desperation.

Noct breaks from the beat for a moment, and Ignis feels his shiver.

By any metric, he is an intoxicant. Ignis has a reasonable degree of self-restraint, but Noct makes keeping himself in check near-impossible. He makes it impossible on a  _ daily basis _ \- makes Ignis want to follow him to hell, call it heaven every step of the way-

The beat builds, builds. The sea of dancers roils, surges, sparks. Somewhere nearby, Gladio and Prompto are wrapped around each other, eyes and hips locked together.

The pause before the drop lasts barely a beat. Ignis shudders out a raw breath. His fingers curl around Noct’s hips, pull him in.

When the bass drops, they throw themselves into it, intertwined.

* * *

They spill out of the nightclub sometime around one. Noct’s arm is wrapped tight around Ignis’ waist, Gladio’s holding his other hand, Prompto’s sagging against Gladio’s side, tipsy by virtue less of wine and more of touch and adrenaline. They’ve been kissing smiles from one mouth to another all night, not traded, but shared.

In the Jeep, Gladio puts on something with an easy rhythm, Prompto sings along to what he knows, and Noct links his fingers with Ignis’ on the leather of the backseat - just as they always are.

But the route is unfamiliar. “Not headed home?” Ignis is admittedly surprised - it’s getting late, and they do all have responsibilities the next day.

“No way!” Prompto twists around from the front seat and gives Ignis one of his blinding smiles. “We’ve still got my present, remember?”

“Yes,” says Ignis, cautiously. They seem to be heading slightly out of Insomnia. At the gate, Gladio rolls down the window and says something quiet to the guard, and they pass.

The Jeep stops in what seems to be the middle of nowhere. When Ignis steps out, they’re standing on a weed-cracked driveway, looking at a building about as large as a mid-sized house. There’s not a single light on.

He turns to Prompto, one eyebrow raised.

“So the building is slated for destruction anyway,” Prompto begins. He’s hopping from the ball of one foot to another. “And Noct got it cleared, and Gladio bought the gasoline, and-”

“My dear,” Ignis says, “what on earth are you talking about?”

“Um,” says Prompto. He pulls something from his pocket and hands it to Ignis - a lighter. “I brought four, just in case-”

Ignis looks at the lighter, and the building looming in the dark, and Gladio unloading cans of gasoline from the trunk of the Jeep, and Prompto’s half-nervous, half-expectant smile.

All in a rush, it clicks.

To Prompto, he says, “I love you.”

“Ehhehehehehehh,” says Prompto. He ducks his head, smiling at the ground, and even in the dusk, Ignis can see the freckled flush of his cheeks. At his side, Prompto’s hand finds its way into his.

“Why don’t I ever get  _ I love you- _ s that directly?” Noct complains. “It’s all things like  _ I made you dinner _ and  _ okay fine I’ll teach you to drive _ and  _ call me when you get home, _ he never says it outright-”

Gladio interrupts, “It’s cause you didn’t give him arson as a birthday present-”

“Noct,” Ignis cuts in. “I love you.” He catches Gladio’s eyes, warm and hazel. “And you. Thank you.”

Noct mumbles something inaudible. Gladio rubs the back of his neck, and then grabs Ignis from behind and hugs him hard. He smells like gasoline, and home.

“Permit me the sentimentality,” Ignis adds, leaning back to press his cheek against Gladio’s. “It’s my birthday.”

“Love you too, Iggy,” Noct says softly.

And it’s as easy as that.

So they wander through the building, pouring gasoline on just about everything they see, and then meet up back at the entrance to pour a stream out onto the cracked pavement. Ignis lights the end of it and then tosses the lighter behind him as fire licks and races along the ground, hungering in red-gold.

The four of them sprint in the opposite direction, piling into the Jeep. Gladio roars away just as the first  _ boom _ comes from behind them. Prompto is hooting with excitement, Noct is cackling, Gladio has the gas pedal pressed flat against the floor of the Jeep, and in the chaos, Ignis lets himself laugh, really laugh.

It seems they’ve scouted the location, because it’s not long before Gladio is pulling up on an overlook. The building is catching for real - they get there just in time to watch the first floor collapse, with a wonderful, wonderful crackle. Ignis only realizes after a few minutes that his cheeks hurt, not from the heat of the blaze, but from his ridiculous, unsuitable grin.

After a few minutes of burning, Prompto pulls his camera out of his backpack and shows them the photos he’s taken today. The first one is from bed this morning - Ignis’ hair is messy, glasses missing, burnt toast on his lap, boyfriends draped around him like a nest. He looks dazed, but the corners of his mouth are upturned.

Noc nudges him. “Nice smile, Specs.”

“Come now, it’s nothing special,” Ignis murmurs.

“Liar,” Gladio tells him.

There’s Ignis watching beans grind through a coffee machine, there’s Ignis caught by surprise and sprawled on a picnic blanket, there’s Ignis holding his new shirt up to the light, there’s Ignis’ eyeliner, Ignis’ hands on Noct’s hips. Eventually, everyone gives up commenting on Ignis’ smile. There’s no point, really - it’s there in every single one.

The last shot is a blurry selfie of the four of them booking it down the driveway as fire begins to balloon in the background. Ignis looks down at their four grins, and then up at the merrily burning building before them, then to either side, at the three best things in his life, warm and golden in the firelight.

“Happy birthday, Specs,” says Noct softly, and there’s not a single place on Eos that Ignis would rather be.


End file.
